-flashback-

"Sherlock?" I could see him, right in front of me, he stood there with his cheekbones and popped collar and just looked at me. I lifted my arm and tried to touch him, tried to feel he was real, but he moved away, out of my reach but not out of my sight. I could still see him; I could still feel his presence.

"John, I'm here." His voice was different somehow, low and gruff as if he had a cough, but we both knew that couldn't be; he was dead, "I'm alive, come find me." He had a playful note in his voice and with those words he twisted around and walked out of Baker Street.

"Sherlock!" I shouted after him, I wanted to run but my feet wouldn't move, I was planted to the spot and I couldn't move. It was like something was wrenching my feet to the floor, something was pulling me back from running after the man whom I held so dear in my heart.

Then I realised what had stopped me from running after him, reality.

John sat bolt upright in his bed in the dark room, all alone in 221B Baker Street. He'd just started going to work again and he knew he had to be there soon so he got up and dragged himself over to get changed. He walked out of his bedroom and the overwhelming, crippling sensation ripped at his chest as it did every morning when he walked out and realised no-one would be greeting him. When he realised that their milk - he was still calling it their milk as if Sherlock were alive - would be devoid of fingers or toes, and there wouldn't be a severed head dripping blood in his fridge. When he realised that his house didn't have half done experiments littered around, or half eaten sandwiches stashed out of sight where he couldn't see them.

When he got over the initial pain of that he dragged himself to make a coffee, checking in fridge for something to eat, maybe even to see if it had all been a bad dream. He wished more than anything to see a severed head but all he saw were old, unopened packets of food that he never quite had the patience to cook or the strength to eat.

He made a coffee and then went to work. He didn't eat; he buried himself in work, anything to get over the harsh memory. 'That's what people do, isn't it? Leave a note?' He breathed steadily as he examined patients and handed out prescriptions. He sat there at lunch time, every lunch time reading through the files and looking at more symptoms, he read from books if he was having a particularly slow day, or he caught up on paper work. Because he knew that if for one second he stopped working and he stopped making himself do things then he would stop breathing. He wouldn't be able to hold it together and he would fall apart, in front of everyone. Like the broken toy soldier, mourning his friend's loss is weak; he'd seen it so many times before in Iraq so why was he so irreparable now?

Because he was more than your friend. You loved him. Not in the romantic way, but in the 'I hope you are always okay.' sort of way. That's what he kept telling himself. He wasn't in love with Sherlock Holmes; he loved him like he loved a family member, willing to do anything for him but knowing that you could never love him in any different way.

Or maybe he did love him in the romantic way. He wasn't sure, he was always so tired, between the nightmares, where all he saw was Sherlock jumping, and the dreams, where he and Sherlock were reunited, and he was barely sure what was real and what wasn't.

That's when he started to have the dreams. The dreams that involved a girl, no, not a girl, a woman. A woman with a child's innocence, and a bone-chillingly young voice. Her body had all the attributes John needed and her mind held all the ones he valued, she was smart, and kind and so innocent. New to the world and yet somehow she understood it. She understood it in ways that helped her comfort John, but only in the dreams. He still woke up to an empty house, feeling more alone than ever that he'd lost Sherlock and now that he would never meet the angel of his nightmares.

She helped him feel happy, that always made him feel guilty in a way, sort of like he doesn't deserve happiness so why is this angel giving it to him? In the morning he woke up to feel pain, which was always the first thing he felt. Pain that he would never see his best friend. But then guilt filled him, anger bubbled over and he was left with a crippling sensation in his bones.

"Can you send the next patient in?" I buzzed over the intercom.

"Yes, doctor Watson." Her voice came back quickly and I could hear the footsteps, God, what a boring way to spend my day, this time last year I was chasing criminals-No, John. Stop. You can't think about those days, they're over, move on. I picked up a pen and began to write the date slowly on the sheet of paper in front of me. I wrote my name and pulled up the next persons file on the computer.

"Mary Morstan, I presume?" I asked when the door clicked open.

"That's me." She said. That voice. I froze in the spot and refused to look at her, It's the angels voice, I'm sure of it. Of course, I didn't know she had a name, I never presumed she was even real but here she was, standing in my surgery.

"I'm Doctor John Watson, what seems to be the problem?" I leaned back in my chair and watched her cross the room and take the seat opposite my desk. I chewed on the pen and looked at her face. Shit. It's her. Fuck. It's the angel, what do I do. Okay, John. Act normal, you are a professional.

"I just feel sick, all the time, and my friend recommended I come and see you, he said you were a very good Doctor."

I smiled and looked at Mary, "I like to think I am," I checked the screen quickly to see what her title was, "Mrs Morstan."

"Please, it's Ms. Morstan. My husband just died."

"I'm very sorry to hear that." I said as I saw the sadness in her eyes. I then noticed the dark bags underneath them and how thin her face looked, it looked almost as bad as mine, "I presume your husband died in the past couple of months?"

"Yes, 2 months ago." She looked at me, "How did you know that?"

I smiled and said, "I am also right in saying that you haven't eaten much since then?"

"Again, yes." She said, confusion was burrowed in her eyes.

"And you say you feel sick?" I gave her no chance to answer and continued on, "A close friend of mine passed away recently and I was feeling very sick, just like you. But I wasn't eating anything either." I leaned forward on the table and looked at her square in the eyes, "What you need to do, to feel better, is eat. I swear that the moment you eat a full meal you won't feel sick."

I hadn't even done that yet, so how did I know this? Because she told me it. The angel of my nightmares told me that I need to eat to feel better, every day I ignored it and I still felt sick. But now, with the angel sitting in front of me, so sad and frail, I had to help.

"Now, Ms. Morstan, Since my friend passed away I haven't eaten much either, so the two of us should go out and get some food, not on a date, just because as your doctor, I need to make sure that you are getting the proper sustenance into your body.

-Now-

"Mary! Don't you remember me? Your good friend, Jim Moriarty, I'm so glad you didn't take my name when we were married, who would have known the doctor would fall so hard for you?"

Mary was tied to a chair, a scarf was wrapped firmly around her mouth, and she tried to move around in the chair but to no avail. She was well and truly stuck. Her stomach was in pain and she knew they'd given her something, if it harms the baby then John would not be happy.

"I knew he would fall for you, but I never imagined that you would fall for him! How long did it take for you to stop contacting me with information on him? Oh 5 months. Not even that, if I'm right." He grinned and walked over to her, "And now you're carrying poor Johns little baby. How do you think he'd react if he found out the true circumstances of you two meeting?"

She struggled harder then, the scarf made her skin itch but she managed to make it slip off of her mouth. "Don't you dare tell him!" she shouted pain evident in her voice. She curled over in the chair as her stomach began to hurt, as if offering protection to the baby growing inside her, but she couldn't. Her arms were pulled back by someone behind her and she was forced to sit straight, writhing in agony as she could feel the precious life inside her slip away. "Please, don't let me lose this baby, I'll do what you want, just help me keep it?" her eyes were pleading and Jim leaned into her face, their noses nearly touching.

"No." He whispered.